Bite Your Tongue
by PythonFan
Summary: Mark is called into work unexpectedly while watching his niece. Roger's the only one home. Rated T for a bit of language.


Roger entered the loft, guitar case in hand, only to be greeted by his frantic-looking roommate, phone glued to his ear. The filmmaker grinned triumphantly in relief upon noticing his friend, and immediately hung up.

"Thank god. You're here."

"Pardon?"

"I've gotta go in for _Buzzline_; this one segment needs an extra cameraman. They just called, like, 20 minutes ago. "

Roger squinted in confusion as he lowered his guitar case to the ground. "You need help crossing the street or something…?"

Exasperated, Mark rolled his eyes. "I told you this a week ago, remember? Cindy and Kevin are out of town with Ryan's baseball team for the night. Kevin doesn't have any family and Mom just had back surgery, so they're leaving Hannah with me."

"Hannah."

"Yes."

"Your niece."

"Correct." Mark swiped his coat and scarf from where they lay on the kitchen table.

It was at that moment that Roger Davis put two and two together.

"Oh Jesus, Mark, no…"

"Calm down…"

"You _can't_ make me…"

"It'll be like a few hours, tops. I'll bring dinner when I get back. My treat, okay?"

Roger could only stare, helpless. "I've never babysat before…" he protested feebly.

"Relax; it'll be fine. She's a five-year-old girl. They're entertained by anything. And if worst comes to worst, you just turn on the television."

Roger glanced around the apartment, desperately searching for a way out. "Is she here?"

At that moment, the bathroom door swung open to reveal a tiny brunette in pigtails, clad in pink leggings and a t-shirt with some garish furry cartoon character on it. Roger groaned inwardly.

Mark strode over and guided the kindergartener back across the room by the shoulders. "Hannah, you remember my roommate Roger?"

The doe-eyed child and the rock star eyed each other warily. Roger attempted to smile at her, but he was sure it was more of a grimace. Hannah, on the other hand, simply stared, expressionless.

"Roger's gonna watch you while I go into work for a few hours. Go easy on him, okay? I'll bring home dinner when I get back." He smiled down at his niece, squeezing her shoulder reassuringly. With that, he grabbed his camera bag and dashed out the door.

They were left in silence for several moments. Roger wasn't quite sure how to proceed; he hadn't grown up with siblings.

"Hey."

The child crossed her arms, cocked her head and blinked expectantly. "Hi."

"I'm, uh, Roger."

Hannah looked unimpressed. "Uncle Mark already said that." she reminded him tartly.

Roger exhaled slowly. It was going to be a long evening.

Half an hour later, Roger was stretched out on the sofa, dozing. Last he'd seen, Hannah had spread out on the floor with massive amounts of Barbie paraphernalia, which was fine by him. Maybe, just maybe, the rugrat would occupy herself until Mark got back.

"I'm _bored_."

And…no such luck.

Roger peered out of one eye at the small girl. She was standing over him, hands on hips and eyebrows raised, wearing a pout that Roger was fairly certain she had inherited from her mother.

"Play with me." The request was slightly louder, more demanding this time.

His jaw tensed involuntarily. He really, really wasn't a kid person. Gritting his teeth, he opened both his eyes and asked tersely, "What do you want to play?"

"House."

Oh, hell no.

He threw his arm over his face, trying desperately to think of a way out. Through the fog of drowsiness, he suddenly latched onto an idea.

"Okay." he acquiesced.

His arm was still over his face, but he could almost see her face light up. "Really?" she exclaimed delightedly.

"Yeah. I'm the baby and the baby's taking a nap."

He heard her stomp a tiny foot in exasperation. "_No._" she protested with a stubborn whine.

"Yes. I'm the baby and it's naptime." he repeated serenely, eyes fluttering shut.

There was silence for a few moments, and Roger was aware of her retreating footsteps. Saved.

He was just drifting off again when he heard a terrifying sound. His guitar. Being…played, if that's what you want to call it. Mostly it was just a frightening amalgam of chords.

His eyes shot open. Hannah was kneeling in front of his opened guitar case, the instrument balanced precariously across her tiny lap. Her small fingers raked roughly over the strings.

"Fucking hell, don't do that!" Without thinking, Roger scrambled off the couch and lunged across the room, wrenching the precious guitar from her grasp. Cradling it to his chest, he stared down at the young girl, eyes wide. "What were you _doing_?" he demanded, his voice rising to a disturbingly high pitch.

Unfazed, Hannah fixed him with a cool stare. "Babies don't have toys like that." she stated simply.

Roger rolled his eyes. Squatting, he carefully began to replace the guitar in its case; he was trying to think of someplace to hide it when her tiny voice piped up from beside him.

"You said the f-word. _And _the h-word."

He paused, fingers lingering lightly over the interior of the case. "What?"

"You said bad words."

Roger decided to ignore her. Slamming the case shut, he flicked both locks and set it upright.

"Mommy wouldn't like it if I said fuck. Or hell."

When the words left her five-year-old mouth, Roger had to turn and gape. After confirming that she did, indeed, say what he thought she said, the truth of her words sank in.

Mark wouldn't really care. But Cindy? Cindy would kill him. He'd known Mark's sister since she was in high school. If there was ever a poster child for a Stepford Wife, she was it.

As Roger began to consider the fact that, in Hannah, he was dealing with a tougher customer than her five years might suggest, all sorts of gory possibilities began to materialize in his head. She'd probably drop the f-bomb at a ridiculously inopportune, public moment, during a soccer game or birthday party or shopping trip or something.

Then Cindy Cohen-Schultz would show up at his door with a butcher knife.

"You shouldn't say those words." he chided, gentler this time.

"You did." She grinned slyly. "And you're the baby, remember?" She got up and skipped across the room, back to the scattered mess of Barbie crap. "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Hell. Hell. Hell. Fucking hell." she singsonged cheerfully.

"Hannah, listen…." The guitar momentarily forgotten, he walked across the room to stand over her. "You can't say those things."

She looked up at him, a syrupy sweet smile gracing her features. "Why not?"

Roger cocked his head and sighed in exasperation. "You know why not." He crouched down next to her. "I'm sorry, okay? I wasn't thinking. But we both know that…those words aren't for kids your age."

The girl studied him appraisingly, then fixed Roger with a smile that he could only identify as suspicious.

"We need to negoshate."

Roger let out a weary breath. "What?"

"Negoshating. I won't say those words, but then you have to play whatever I want."

Roger blinked. The kid couldn't even pronounce "negotiate," but was well on her way to a career in politics. She'd probably be the first female President of the United States. In all honesty, he couldn't believe he was doing this. He clenched his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. Okay, he could a) grin and bear a fluffy pink kindergarten nightmare for a couple hours, or b) expect a painful, grisly death at the hands of a minivan-driving soccer mom.

Knowing that the choice was clear, he resigned himself to his fate as a five-year-old's bitch.

"What are we playing?"

When Mark walked through the door two hours later, a large bag of Chinese in hand, he was surprised to see his niece skip energetically up to him, a wide grin on her face.

"Hi, Uncle Mark."

"Hey, kiddo. Where's Roger? You didn't kill him, did you?"

Her hand flew up to her mouth, and she giggled behind her palm. "He heard you coming, so he ran into his room. I don't think he's gonna come out."

Mark eyed her suspiciously as he set the food on the counter. He slowly crossed the loft to Roger's closed door. Knocking lightly, he called "Rog? You okay in there?"

"Just a…I need a second." His voice was somewhat muffled.

Mark and Hannah stood there, the former trying to figure out what was making the latter giggle harder with each passing moment. After about fifteen seconds, Mark rattled the door, which had been jammed shut, enough to free it. As the door swung open, Mark's eyes widened in surprise at the sight that greeted him.

Roger Davis looked like a deer caught in the headlights. His hair had been knotted and pinned elaborately and topped with a plastic silver tiara. Child's play makeup smeared his face, as if had been hastily wiped away in a panic, and a slew of Mardi Gras beads were draped around his neck. Each of his fingernails sported a healthy glob of neon pink polish. In the midst of his shock, Mark vaguely wondered what he had looked like _before _his desperate attempt to clean himself up.

Hannah's giggles filtered in from behind him, and Mark couldn't stop a small smile from crossing his own face. "Well, what did _you_ two do tonight?"

"We played makeover!" Hannah chirped delightedly.

Mark raised an eyebrow in Roger's direction. Makeover? How the hell did she ever get him to agree to _that_? "Did you, now?" he murmured thoughtfully.

Roger snatched up a sheet and rubbed it hard over his face. Realizing that it was an exercise in futility, and that the makeup crap wasn't coming off without a fight, he threw the wadded cloth back onto the bed in frustration and made his way towards the door, scowling.

He squeezed past Mark, determined to ignore the good-natured smirk on the filmmaker's face.

"Channeling a little Angel there?"

"Shut up." was the curt reply.

Mark glanced down at his niece, standing by his side. The little girl, always so demanding of attention, looked more delighted than he'd ever seen her. He had to admit, he was tempted to milk the situation for all it was worth.

On the other hand, his roommate—looking like a half-dressed, low-budget drag queen—had already cracked open a beer, chugging it as if there was no tomorrow. Hannah would be gone within a matter of hours. His beer guzzling, pseudo-transvestite grouse of a best friend, however, was staying. So as he sat down to dinner of Kung Pao chicken, he opted to do what he did best as a filmmaker: bite his tongue, swallow his questions, and enjoy the show.


End file.
